KI P  VAN 
WINKLE 


I 


• 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Edwin  Grabhorn 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE 


RIP  VAN 
WINKLE 

From  The  Sketch  Book  of 
WASHINGTON  IRVING 


Published  for  WILL  BRADLEY  by 
R.  H.  RUSSELL,  New  York. 


Copyright,  189?,  by  WILL  BRADLEY. 


RIP  VAN 
WINKLE 

a  $ogt^umou0  mrf  ttng  of 


2ty  Woden  ,  G0*/  <?/"  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday, 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre.  —  CARTWRIGHT. 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voy 
age  up  the  Hudson,  must 
remember   the    Kaatskill 
mountains.  They  are  a  dis 
membered  branch  of  the  great  Appalachian 
family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of  the 
river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and 
lording  it  over  the  surrounding  country. 
Every  change  of  season,  every  change  of 


8          Rip  Van  Winkle 

weather,  indeed  every  hour  of  the  day,  pro 
duces  some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and 
shapes  of  these  mountains;  and  they  are  re 
garded  by  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near, 
as  perfect  barometers.  When  the  weather 
is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue 
and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on 
the  clear  evening  sky;  but  sometimes,  when 
the  rest  of  the  landscape  is  cloudless,  they 
will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapours  about 
their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the 
setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a 
crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the 
voyager  may  have  descried  the  light  smoke 
curling  up  from  the  village,  whose  shingle 
roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where 
the  blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  in 
to  the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape. 
It  is  a  little  village  of  great  antiquity,  having 
been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colo 
nists,  in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  just 
about  the  beginning  of  the  government  of 
the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant  (may  he  rest  in 
peace!)  and  there  were  some  of  the  houses 
of  the  original  settlers  standing  within  a  few 
years,  built  of  small  yellow  bricks  brought 
from  Holland,  having  latticed  windows  and 
gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 
In  the  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very 
houses  (which  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was 


9          Rip  Van  Winkle 

sadly  time-worn  and  weather-beaten),  there 
lived  many  years  since,  while  the  country 
was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  sim 
ple,  good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip 
Van  Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the 
Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gallantly  in 
the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and 
accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  fort  Chris 
tina.  He  inherited,  however,  but  little  of 
the  martial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I 
have  observed  that  he  was  a  simple  good- 
natured  man;  he  was  moreover  a  kind 
neighbour,  and  an  obedient  henpecked  hus 
band.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance 
might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit 
which  gained  him  such  universal  popular 
ity;  for  those  men  are  most  apt  to  be  obsequi 
ous  and  conciliating  abroad,  who  are  under 
the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home.  Their 
tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and 
malleable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic 
tribulation,  and  a  curtain  lecture  is  worth  all 
the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teaching  the 
virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A 
termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  re 
spects,  be  considered  a  tolerable  blessing;  and 
if  so,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 
Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite 
among  all  the  good  wives  of  the  village, 
who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable  sex,  took 
his  part  in  all  family  squabbles,  and  never 


io        Rip  Van  Winkle 

failed,  whenever  they  talked  those  matters 
over  in  their  evening  gossippings,  to  lay  all 
the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The 
children  of  the  village,  too,  would  shout 
with  joy  whenever  he  approached.  He  as 
sisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings, 
taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles, 
and  told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches, 
and  Indians.  Whenever  he  went  dodging 
about  the  village,  he  was  surrounded  by  a 
troop  of  them  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clam 
bering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand 
tricks  on  him  with  impunity;  and  not  a  dog 
would  bark  at  him  throughout  the  neigh 
bourhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was 
an  insuperable  aversion  to  all  kinds  of  pro 
fitable  labour.  It  could  not  be  from  the 
want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance;  for  he 
would  sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long 
and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all 
day  without  a  murmur,  even  though  he 
should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nib 
ble.  He  would  carry  a  fowling-piece  on 
his  shoulder  for  hours  together,  trudging 
through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and 
down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild 
pigeons.  He  would  never  refuse  to  assist 
a  neighbour,  even  in  the  roughest  toil,  and 
was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics 
for  husking  Indian  corn  or  building  stone 


1 1        Rip  Van  Winkle 

fences.  The  women  of  the  village,  too, 
used  to  employ  him  to  run  their  errands, 
and  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  ob 
liging  husbands  would  not  do  for  them; — 
in  a  word,  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  any 
body's  business  but  his  own;  but  as  to  doing 
family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order, 
he  found  it  impossible. 
In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work 
on  his  farm;  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little 
piece  of  ground  in  the  whole  country ;  every 
thing  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go 
wrong  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were 
continually  falling  to  pieces;  his  cow  would 
either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the  cabbages; 
weeds  were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields 
than  anywhere  else;  the  rain  always  made 
a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some 
out-door  work  to  do;  so  that  though  his 
patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under 
his  management,  acre  by  acre,  until  there 
was  little  more  left  than  a  mere  patch  of 
Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it  was  the 
worst  conditioned  farm  in  the  neighbour 
hood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild 
as  if  they  belonged  to  nobody.  His  son 
Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his  own  like 
ness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with 
the  old  clothes  of  his  father.  He  was  gen 
erally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's 


12        Rip  Van  Winkle 

heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast- 
offgalligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to 
hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does 
her  train  in  bad  weather. 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those 
happy  mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispo 
sitions,  who  take  the  world  easy,  eat  white 
bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with 
least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather 
starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If 
left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life 
away  in  perfect  contentment;  but  his  wife 
kept  continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about 
his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he 
was  bringing  on  his  family. 
Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was 
incessantly  going,  and  everything  he  said  or 
did  was  sure  to  produce  a  torrent  of  house 
hold  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of 
replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that, 
by  frequent  use,  had  grown  into  a  habit. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head, 
cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This, 
however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  volley 
from  his  wife,  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw 
off  his  forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the 
house — the  only  side  which,  in  truth,  be 
longs  to  a  henpecked  husband. 
Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog 
Wolf,  who  was  as  much  henpecked  as  his 
master;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle  regarded 


13        Rip  Van  Winkle 

them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even 
looked  upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye  as  the 
cause  of  his  master's  going  so  often  astray. 
True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an 
honorable  dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an 
animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods — but 
what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during 
and  all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue? 
The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house,  his 
crest  fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground, 
or  curled  between  his  legs,  he  sneaked  about 
with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a  sidelong 
glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the 
least  flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle,  he 
would  fly  to  the  door  with  yelping  precipi 
tation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van 
Winkle,  as  years  of  matrimony  rolled  on;  a 
tart  temper  never  mellows  with  age,  and  a 
sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edge  tool  that  grows 
keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long  while 
he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven 
from  home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpet 
ual  club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and  other 
idle  personages  of  the  village,  which  held 
its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a  small  inn, 
designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  his  ma 
jesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used 
to  sit  in  the  shade,  of  a  long  lazy  summer's 
day,  talking  listlessly  over  village  gossip  or 
telling  endless  sleepy  stories  about  nothing. 


14        Rip  Van  Winkle 

But  it  would  have  been  worth  any  states 
man's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound 
discussions  which  sometimes  took  place, 
when  by  chance  an  old  newspaper  fell  into 
their  hands,  from  some  passing  traveller. 
How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the 
contents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van 
Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  a  dapper  learn 
ed  little  man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted 
by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the  diction 
ary;  and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate 
upon  public  events  some  months  after  they 
had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junta  were  com 
pletely  controlled  by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  pa 
triarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of  the 
inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat 
from  morning  till  night,  just  moving  suffi 
ciently  to  avoid  the  sun,  and  keep  in  the 
shade  of  a  large  tree;  so  that  the  neigh 
bours  could  tell  the  hour  by  his  movements 
as  accurately  as  by  a  sundial.  It  is  true, 
he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked 
his  pipe  incessantly.  His  adherents,  how 
ever  (for  every  great  man  has  his  adherents), 
perfectly  understood  him,  and  knew  how 
to  gather  his  opinions.  When  anything 
that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he 
was  observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehement 
ly,  and  to  send  forth  short,  frequent,  and 
angry  puffs;  but  when  pleased,  he  would 


15        Rip  Van  Winkle 

inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and 
emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds,  and  some 
times  taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
letting  the  fragrant  vapour  curl  about  his 
nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token 
of  perfect  approbation. 
From  even  this  strong  hold  the  unlucky 
Rip  was  at  length  routed  by  his  termagant 
wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in  upon 
the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage,  and  call 
the  members  all  to  nought;  nor  was  that 
august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  himself, 
sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  ter 
rible  virago,  who  charged  him  outright 
with  encouraging  her  husband  in  habits  of 
idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  de 
spair,  and  his  only  alternative  to  escape  from 
the  labor  of  the  farm  and  the  clamor  of 
his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand,  and  stroll 
away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would 
sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree, 
and  share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with 
Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a 
fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "Poor 
Wolf/'  he  would  say,  "thy  mistress  leads 
thee  a  dog's  life  of  it;  but  never  mind,  my 
lad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shalt  never  want  a 
friend  to  stand  by  thee!"  Wolf  would  wag 
his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  master's  face, 
and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe 


1 6        Rip  Van  Winkle 

he  reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his 
heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind,  on  a  fine 
autumnal  day,  Rip  had  unconsciously 
scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of 
the  Kaatskill  mountains.  He  was  after  his 
favorite  sport  of  squirrel-shooting,  and  the 
still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  re-echoed  with 
the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fa 
tigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  after 
noon  on  a  green  knoll  covered  with  mountain 
herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  prec 
ipice.  From  an  opening  between  the 
trees,  he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  coun 
try  for  many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland.  He 
saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far, 
far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but 
majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a 
purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark, 
here  and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom, 
and  at  last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 
On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a 
deep  mountain  glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shag 
ged,  the  bottom  filled  with  fragments  from 
the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by 
the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For 
some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene; 
evening  was  gradually  advancing;  the  moun 
tains  began  to  throw  their  long  blue  shadows 
over  the  valleys;  he  saw  that  it  would  be 
dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village; 


1 7        Rip  Van  Winkle 

and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought 
of  encountering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend  he  heard  a  voice 
from  a  distance  hallooing,  "Rip  Van  Win 
kle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  He  looked  around, 
but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  winging 
its  solitary  flight  across  the  mountain.  He 
thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him, 
and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard 
the  same  cry  ring  through  the  still  evening 
air,  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!" 
— at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his 
back,  and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked  to 
his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  in 
to  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  appre 
hension  stealing  over  him:  he  looked 
anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and  per 
ceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the 
rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of 
something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was 
surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this  lone 
ly  and  unfrequented  place,  but  supposing  it  to 
be  some  one  of  the  neighbourhood  in  need 
of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 
On  nearer  approach,  he  was  still  more  sur 
prised  at  the  singularity  of  the  stranger's 
appearance.  He  was  a  short  square  built 
old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a 
grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  an 
tique  Dutch  fashion — a  cloth  jerkin  strap- 


1 8        Rip  Van  Winkle 

ped  round  the  waist — several  pair  of  breech 
es,  the  outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated 
with  rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and 
bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his 
shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of 
liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach 
and  assist  him  with  the  load.  Though 
rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new  ac 
quaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual 
alacrity,  and  mutually  relieving  each  other, 
they  clambered  up  a  narrow  gully,  appar 
ently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent. 
As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now  and  then 
heard  long  rolling  peals,  like  distant  thunder, 
that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine 
or  rather  cleft  between  lofty  rocks,  toward 
which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He 
paused  for  an  instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be 
the  muttering  of  one  of  those  transient 
thunder-showers  which  often  take  place 
in  mountain  heights,  he  proceeded.  Pass 
ing  through  the  ravine,  they  came  to  a 
hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  sur 
rounded  by  perpendicular  precipices,  over 
the  brinks  of  which,  impending  trees  shot 
their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught 
glimpses  of  the  azure  sky,  and  the  bright 
evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time, 
Rip  and  his  companion  had  labored  on  in 
silence;  for  though  the  former  marvelled 
greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carry- 


Rip  Van  Winkle 

ing  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain, 
yet  there  was  something  strange  and  incom 
prehensible  about  the  unknown,  that  inspir 
ed  awe,  and  checked  familiarity. 
On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects 
of  wonder  presented  themselves.  On  a  level 
spot  in  the  center  was  a  company  of  odd- 
looking  personages  playing  at  nine-pins. 
They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  out-landish 
fashion:  some  wore  short  doublets,  others 
jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and 
most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches,  of 
similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's.  Their 
visages,  too,  were  peculiar;  one  had  a  large 
head,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes;  the 
face  of  another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of 
nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  white  sugar- 
loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail. 
They  all  had  beards,  of  various  shapes  and 
colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be 
the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentle 
man,  with  a  weather-beaten  countenance;  he 
wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and  hang 
er,  high-crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stock 
ings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in 
them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip 
of  an  old  Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor 
of  Dominie  Van  Schaick,  the  village  par 
son,  and  which  had  been  brought  over  from 
Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 
What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip,  was, 


20        Rip  Van  Winkle 

that  though  these  folks  were  evidently  amus 
ing  themselves,  yet  they  maintained  the 
gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence, 
and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party 
ot  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Noth 
ing  interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but 
the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever  they 
were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains 
like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 
As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached 
them,  they  suddenly  desisted  from  their 
play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such  a  fixed 
statue- like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth, 
lack-lustre  countenances,  that  his  heart 
turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  to 
gether.  His  companion  now  emptied  the 
contents  of  the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and 
made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  com 
pany.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling ; 
they  quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence, 
and  then  returned  to  their  game. 
By  degrees,  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension 
subsided.  He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye 
was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the  beverage, 
which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor 
of  excellent  Holland's.  He  was  naturally 
a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  re 
peat  the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  an 
other,  and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the 
flagon  so  often,  that  at  length  his  senses 
were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his 


2i        Rip  Van  Winkle 

head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he 
fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 
On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green 
knoll  from  whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old 
man  of  the  glen.  Herubbed  his  eyes — it  was 
a  bright  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were 
hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes- 
and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breast 
ing  the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "Surely/* 
thought  Rip,  "I  have  not  slept  here  all 
night/'  He  recalled  the  occurences  before 
he  fell  asleep.  The  strange  man  with  the  keg 
of  liquor — the  mountain  ravine — the  wild 
retreat  among  the  rocks — the  woe-begone 
party  at  nine-pins — the  flagon — "Oh!  that 
wicked  flagon! "  thought  Rip — "what  ex 
cuses  shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle?" 
He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place 
of  the  clean,  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he 
found  an  old  fire-lock  lying  by  him,  the 
barrel  encrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling 
off",  and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now 
suspected  that  the  grave  roysters  of  the 
mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and 
having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed 
him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappear 
ed,  but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after 
a  squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after 
him,  and  shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain ; 
the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and  shout, 
but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 


22        Rip  Van  Winkle 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the 
last  evening's  gambol,  and  if  he  met  with 
any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his  dog  and 
gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  him 
self  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his 
usual  activity.  "These  mountain  beds  do 
not  agree  with  me, "  thought  Rip,  "and  if 
this  frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of 
the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time 
with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With  some 
difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen;  he 
found  the  gully  up  which  he  and  his 
companion  had  ascended  the  preceding 
evening;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mount 
ain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it, 
leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the 
glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  how 
ever,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides, 
working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets, 
of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel;  and 
sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the 
wild  grape  vines  that  twisted  their  coils  and 
tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind 
of  network  in  his  path. 
At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine 
had  opened  through  the  cliffs  to  the  am 
phitheatre;  but  no  traces  of  such  opening 
remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high 
impenetrable  wall,  over  which  the  torrent 
came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam, 
and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from 


23        Rip  Van  Winkle 

the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest. 
Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a 
stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after 
his  dog;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  caw 
ing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high 
in  air  about  a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sun 
ny  precipice;  and  who,  secure  in  their  ele 
vation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at 
the  poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to 
be  done?  The  morning  was  passing  away, 
and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his 
breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog 
and  gun;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife;  but 
it  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mount- 
tains.  He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the 
rusty  firelock,  and  with  a  heart  full  of  trou 
ble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 
As  he  approached  the  village,  he  met  a 
number  of  people,  but  none  whom  he 
knew,  which  somewhat  surprised  him,  for 
he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with 
every  one  in  the  country  round.  Their 
dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from 
that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They 
all  stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of  sur 
prise,  and  whenever  they  cast  eyes  upon 
him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The 
constant  recurrance  of  this  gesture,  induced 
Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do  the  same,  when, 
to  his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard  had 
grown  a  foot  long! 


24        Rip  Van  Winkle 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  vil 
lage.  A  troop  of  strange  children  ran  at 
his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and  pointing 
at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one 
of  which  he  recognized  for  an  old  ac 
quaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed. 
The  very  village  was  altered:  it  was  larger 
and  more  populous.  There  were  rows  of 
houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before, 
and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar 
haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange  names 
were  over  the  doors — strange  faces  at  the 
windows — everything  was  strange.  His 
mind  now  misgave  him;  he  began  to  doubt 
whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him 
were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his 
native  village,  which  he  had  left  but  a  day 
before.  There  stood  the  Kaatskill  moun- 
ains — there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a 
distance — there  was  every  hill  and  dale 
precisely  as  it  had  always  been — Rip  was 
sorely  perplexed — "That  flagon  last  night," 
thought  he,  "has  addled  my  poor  head 
sadly!" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found 
the  way  to  his  own  house,  which  he  ap 
proached  with  silent  awe,  expecting  every 
moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame 
Van  Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone 
to  decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows 
shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A 


25        Rip  Van  Winkle 

half-starved  dog,  that  looked  like  Wolf, 
was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by 
name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth, 
and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut 
indeed. — "My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor 
Rip,  "has  forgotten  me!" 
He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the 
truth,  Dame  Van  Winkle  had  always  kept 
in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  forlorn,  and 
apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness 
overcame  all  his  connubial  fears — he  call 
ed  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children — the 
lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with 
his  voice,  and  then  all  again  was  silence. 
He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his 
old  resort,  the  village  inn — but  it  too  was 
gone.  A  large  rickety  wooden  building 
stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  win 
dows,  some  of  them  broken,  and  mended 
with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the 
door  was  painted,  "The  Union  Hotel,  by 
Johnathan  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the 
great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  lit 
tle  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  rear 
ed  a  tall  naked  pole,  with  something  on 
the  top  that  looked  like  a  red  night-cap, 
and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which 
was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes 
— all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehen 
sible.  He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however, 
the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under  which 


26        Rip  Van  Winkle 

he  had  smoked  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe, 
but  even  this  was  singularly  metamor 
phosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed  for 
one  of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword  was  held  in 
the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was 
decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  under 
neath  was  painted  in  large  characters, 
GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 
There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about 
the  door,  but  none  that  Rip  recollected. 
The  very  character  of  the  people  seemed 
changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  dis 
putatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  ac 
customed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity. 
He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas 
Vedder,  with  his  broad  face,  double  chin, 
and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  to 
bacco  smoke,  instead  of  idle  speeches;  or 
Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling 
forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper. 
In  place  of  these,  a  lean,  bilious-looking 
fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  hand-bills, 
was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights 
of  citizens — election — members  of  Con 
gress — liberty — Bunker's  hill — heroes  of 
seventy-six — and  other  words  that  were  a 
perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewilder 
ed  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  griz 
zled  beard,  his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his 
uncouth  dress,  and  the  army  of  women 


27        Rip  Van  Winkle 

and  children  that  had  gathered  at  his  heels, 
soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern 
politicians.  They  crowded  round  him, 
eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot,  with  great 
curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him, 
and  drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired, 
"on  which  side  he  voted?"  Rip  stared  in 
vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy 
little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and 
rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "wheth 
er  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat."  Rip  was 
equally  at  loss  to  comprehend  the  question; 
when  a  knowing,  self-important  old  gentle 
man,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the 
right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed, 
and  planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle, 
with  one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  resting 
on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat 
penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul, 
demanded  in  an  austere  tone,  "what  brought 
him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoul 
der,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether 
he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village?" 
"Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat 
dismayed,  "I  am  a  poor,  quiet  man,  a  native 
of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  King, 
God  bless  him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  by 
standers — "a  tory!  a  tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee! 
hustle  him!  away  with  him!" 


28        Rip  Van  Winkle 

It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self- 
important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored 
order;  and  having  assumed  a  tenfold  aus 
terity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  un 
known  culprit,  what  he  came  there  for,  and 
whom  he  was  seeking.  The  poor  man  hum 
bly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but 
merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his 
neighbors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the 
tavern. 

"Well — who  are  they? — name  them." 
Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  in 
quired,  "Where's  Nicholas  Vedder?' 
There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when 
an  old  man  replied,  in  a  thin,  piping  voice, 
"Nicholas  Vedder?  why,  he  is  dead  and 
gone  these  eighteen  years!     There  was  a 
wooden  tomb-stone  in  the  church-yard  that 
used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that's  rotten 
and  gone  too." 
"Where's  Brom  Dutcher!" 
"Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  be 
ginning   of  the  war;   some  say  he  was 
killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony-Point — 
others  say  he  was  drowned  in  the  squall,  at 
the  foot  of  Antony's  Nose.     I  don't  know 
— he  never  came  back  again." 
"Where's  Van  Bummel, the  schoolmaster ?" 
"He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too;  was  a  great 
militia  general,  and  is  now  in  Congress." 
Rip's  heart  died  away,  at  hearing  of  these 


29        Rip  Van  Winkle 

sad  changes  in  his  home  and  friends,  and 
finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the  world. 
Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treat 
ing  of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and 
of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand: 
War — Congress — Stony-Point! — he  had  no 
courage  to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but 
cried  out  in  despair,  "Does  nobody  here 
know  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 
"Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two 
or  three.  "Oh  to  be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van 
Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against  the  tree." 
Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counter 
part  of  himself  as  he  went  up  the  mountain; 
apparently  as  lazy  and  certainly  as  ragged. 
The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  con 
founded.  He  doubted  his  own  identity, 
and  whether  he  was  himself  or  another 
man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment, 
the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded  who 
he  was,  and  what  was  his  name? 
"God  knows,"  exclaimed  he  at  his  wit's 
end;  I'm  not  myself — I'm  somebody  else 
— that's  me  yonder — no — that's  somebody 
else,  got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last 
night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain, 
and  they've  changed  my  gun,  and  every 
thing's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I 
can't  tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am!" 
The  by-standers  began  now  to  look  at  each 
other,  nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their 


30        Rip  Van  Winkle 

fingers  against  their  foreheads.  There  was 
a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and 
keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief; 
at  the  very  suggestion  of  which,  the  self- 
important  man  with  the  cocked  hat  retired 
with  some  precipitation.  At  this  critical 
moment  a  fresh  comely  woman  passed 
through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the 
gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child 
in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks, 
began  to  cry.  "Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she, 
"hush,  you  little  fool;  the  old  man  won't 
hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the 
air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his 
mind. 

"What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman?" 
asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 
"And  your  father's  name?" 
"Ah,  poor  man,  his  name  was  Rip  Van 
Winkle;  it's  twenty  years  since  he  went 
away  from  home  with  his  gun,  and  never 
has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home 
without  him;  but  whether  he  shot  himself, 
or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody 
can  tell.      I  was  then  but  a  little  girl. " 
Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask;  but 
he  put  it  with  a  faltering  voice: 
"Where's  your  mother?" 
Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since ; 


Rip  Van  Winkle 

she  broke  a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion 
at  a  New-England  pedlar. 
There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in 
this  intelligence.  The  honest  man  could 
contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught  his 
daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am 
your  father!"  cried  he — "Young  Rip  Van 
Winkle  once — old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now! 
— Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Win 
kle!" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman, 
tottering  out  from  among  the  crowd,  put 
her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering  under 
it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed 
"Sure  enough!  It  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — 
it  is  himself.  Welcome  home  again,  old 
neighbor — Why,  where  have  you  been 
these  twenty  long  years?" 
Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole 
twenty  years  had  been  to  him  but  as  one 
night.  The  neighbors  stared  when  they 
heard  it;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each 
other,  and  put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks; 
and  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked 
hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had 
returned  to  the  field,  screwed  down  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head 
— upon  which  there  was  a  general  shaking 
of  the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 
It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the 
opinion  of  old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was 


32        Rip  Van  Winkle 

seen  slowly  advancing  up  the  road.  He 
was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that 
name,  who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  ac 
counts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most 
ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well 
versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and  tra 
ditions  of  the  neighborhood.  He  recol 
lected  Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his 
story  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He 
assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact, 
handed  down  from  his  ancestor  the  histo 
rian,  that  the  Kaatskill  mountains  had 
always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings. 
That  it  was  affirmed  that  the  great  Hen- 
drick  Hudson,  the  first  discoverer  of  the 
river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there 
every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the 
Half-moon,  being  permitted  in  this  way  to 
revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep 
a  guardian  eye  upon  the  river  and  the  great 
city  called  by  his  name.  That  his  father 
had  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch 
dresses  playing  at  nine-pins  in  a  hollow  of 
the  mountain;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard 
one  summer  afternoon,  the  sound  of  their 
balls,  like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 
To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company 
broke  up,  and  returned  to  the  more  impor 
tant  concerns  of  the  election.  Rip's  daugh 
ter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her;  she 
had  a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a 


33         Rip  Van  Winkle 

stout  cheery  farmer  for  a  husband,  whom 
Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that 
used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's 
son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  himself, 
seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  em 
ployed  to  work  on  the  farm,  but  evinced  a 
hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  anything 
else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits; 
he  soon  found  many  of  his  former  cronies, 
though  all  rather  the  worse  for  the  wear 
and  tear  of  time;  and  preferred  making 
friends  among  the  rising  generation,  with 
whom  he  soon  grow  into  great  favor 
Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being 
arrived  at  that  happy  age  when  a  man  can 
do  nothing  with  impunity,  he  took  his 
place  once  more  on  the  bench,  at  the  inn 
door,  and  was  reverenced  as  one  of  the 
patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle  of 
the  old  times  "before  the  war/'  It  was 
some  time  before  he  could  get  into  the  reg 
ular  track  of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to 
comprehend  the  strange  events  that  had 
taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that 
there  had  been  a  revolutionary  war — that 
the  country  had  thrown  off  the  yoke  of 
old  England — and  that,  instead  of  being  a 
subject  of  his  majesty  George  the  Third, 
he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of  the  United 
States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician; 


34        Rip  Van  Winkle 

the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made  but 
little  impression  on  him;  but  there  was  one 
species  of  despotism  under  which  he  had 
long  groaned,  and  that  was — petticoat  gov 
ernment.  Happily,  that  was  at  an  end; 
he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of 
matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  when 
ever  he  pleased,  without  dreading  the 
tyranny  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever 
her  name  was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook 
his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast 
up  his  eyes;  which  might  pass  either  for 
an  expression  of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or 
joy  at  his  deliverance. 
He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger 
that  arrived  at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He 
was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on  some  points 
every  time  he  told  it,  which  was  doubtless 
owing  to  his  having  so  recently  awaked.  It 
at  last  settled  down  precisely  to  the  tale  I 
have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or 
child  in  the  neighborhood,  but  knew  it  by 
heart.  Some  always  pretended  to  doubt 
the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip  had 
been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one 
point  on  which  he  always  remained  flighty. 
The  old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  al 
most  universally  gave  it  full  credit.  Even 
to  this  day,  they  never  hear  a  thunder 
storm  of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the 
Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hudson 


35        Rip  Van  Winkle 

and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  nine-pins: 
and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  henpecked 
husbands  in  the  neighborhood,  when  life 
hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might 
have  a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle's  flagon. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.     PRINTED  BY  WILL  BRADLEY  AT  THE  WAYSIDE 
PRESS,  SPRINGFIELD,  MASS.,  U.  S.    A.,  IN    NOVEMBER,  MDCCCXCV1I 


.. 


JOHN  HOWELI. 


SVN   FiiANCISCO. 


